Christmas at 221B
by thomasharker
Summary: Sherlock is alone at Christmas, bored, and disillusioned with it all, until events conspire to change his mind. Contains parallels to a certain trio of ghosts. Oneshot.


**A/N:** I _still_ don't own any of the characters featured here. Enjoy...

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"_We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year..._"

Sherlock groaned and sat back on the sofa. "John, they're doing _it_ again!" he called through to the kitchen. There was no reply. Sherlock stood up and looked out of the window, where a group of about ten men and women stood singing up at him. They were adults, for goodness' sake! Surely they should be rational enough at that age to realise that lurking outside his house and demanding 'figgy pudding' was not going to get them anywhere, and that a claim that they 'won't go until we get some' was bordering on harassment. He shut the curtains.

After a while, the singing died down and the carollers moved on. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to think. Mycroft had given him a case earlier that day, and as much as he hated to admit that his brother had got him interested, he was definitely intrigued. "Ah! Of course," he said aloud as yet another part of the jigsaw slotted into place. "So if their _father _was the James mentioned on the will, that means the son was..." He leapt from his seat as the phone rang.

"Sherlock. Happy Christmas," Mycroft said as he answered it. "Have you opened your presents yet?"

Sherlock groaned. "I had hoped that you, at least, would overlook the hype surrounding Christmas. It's just another time of year when people get far too drunk and do things they regret later."

"And what about the food?"

"A distraction."

"Presents?"

"A waste of money and wrapping paper."

Mycroft paused. "What _should_ wrapping paper be used for, then?"

"Disguising bodies?" Sherlock suggested.

"Yes, quite. I'm rather glad that you inherited the more morbid side of our parents' genes."

"And yet you still get excited about Christmas."

In his tinsel-strewn office, Mycroft swivelled in his chair. "Don't you remember, though, Sherlock? Those Christmases when we were younger?"

"Yes, of course. Our parents would buy us extravagant gifts which you would keep in their packaging in order to maintain their worth, and I would plug into the mains."

"Yes," Mycroft said with a smile, "very little has changed there, I think. Now, did you get my present?"

Sherlock glanced around for it. "Yes, very thoughtful. A tie."

"I thought a suit might make a change from that jacket you wear all the time. You really would look smarter in it, you know. Anthea chose it."

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

Mycroft just had time to say another 'Happy Christmas' before Sherlock hung up and returned to lying on the sofa in boredom. Before he had time to settle to his thoughts again, however, the door opened and a snow-covered John entered.

"That's a shame," Sherlock said as John sat in the armchair opposite him.

"Harry got drunk again, I thought I'd better-" John stopped mid-sentence as his mouth caught up with his ears. "How did you know?" he asked.

"Nothing, really. You've just got the same look as you always have when you go to visit your sister."

John sighed, as usual, and picked up a book from beside the chair where he had unwrapped it earlier. "Have you had a good Christmas so far?" he asked.

Sherlock rolled over and fixed him with a withering stare. "It's cold, you were out, people are singing at me and I'm getting bored. There's nothing on television and you forgot to buy me nicotine patches, all the shops are shut and that's the one present I might actually appreciate."

"But you get them for the rest of the year as well, Sherlock. That's not really a present then, is it?"

"I have no need for-" he looked at the pile of reluctantly opened presents around him "-a toaster, or a tie."

"You do, actually. Remember what happened to the last toaster?"

Sherlock frowned slightly with the effort of recollection. "Was that the one with the zinc, or the staples?"

"Zinc. Staples was the one before. Anyway, I'm back now. Do you want a drink?"

"Alcohol?" Sherlock asked, shaking his head. "I need to think clearly. I've nearly cracked this latest case."

"Ah, right. About that. Mycroft called earlier, said I should tell you not to worry. The boy's confessed."

"No, but he _didn't_ do it!" Sherlock exclaimed. "It was the father. Which meant that..."

John smiled as Sherlock stood up and began spinning around in the middle of the room. "See, that's all you needed. You can't enjoy yourself when you're bored. Shall I get you anything? A mince pie?"

"No, of course not. I need to concentrate. I object to the name, anyway. It doesn't contain mince."

John went through into the kitchen, whistling some inane Christmas song that only served to agitate Sherlock even more. "John, can you-" Sherlock's phone rang and he stopped mid-sentence to answer it. Number Withheld.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock."

"Yes."

"I've found you."

Sherlock looked around, then went outside to continue the call. He didn't think John would appreciate it, but his curiosity had got the better of him. "Who is this?" he asked.

"Oh, I think we both know the answer to that, Sherlock."

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, looking up and down the icy street in case he was being watched.

"I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, Sherlock. Nothing more than that."

Sherlock was about to reply when he heard a familiar sound at the other end of the line.

_Piip. Piip. Piip. Piip._ Four pips. The phone went dead.

From around the corner there came another band of carol singers, holding buckets for donations. Sherlock endured their singing for as long as he could, then gave the sincerest smile he could manage and placed a five pound note in the nearest bucket.

"Thank you, sir," the small child said, limping slightly as the carollers rounded the next corner and their singing faded out of sight. Sherlock went back inside.

"Oh, hello Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said as they passed on the stairs. "Happy Christmas."

"Thank you for the toaster," Sherlock replied, noting with satisfaction the look of surprise on his landlady's face at his uncharacteristic politeness. "Happy Christmas, John!" he called as he entered. He settled on the sofa, turned on the television and picked up a mince pie from the armrest. He took a bite, but spat it out and turned the television off in disgust. There was, after all, only so much Christmas he could take.


End file.
